


With The Rest All Gone

by queenfanfiction



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Fake News FPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenfanfiction/pseuds/queenfanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a silly little song, sure, but only Stephen remembers a time when it had a deeper meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With The Rest All Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ErinPtah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Colbert That Never Was](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3443) by ptahrrific. 



> Written as a bit of an early Yuletide present for [everyone who wanted it](http://reseda.dreamwidth.org/125707.html?thread=2418955#cmt2418955). Should be read as a coda to “[The Colbert That Never Was](http://reseda.dreamwidth.org/23052.html)” by the wonderful SailorPtah. The song referenced is the Rally/March song of Stephen’s called “[Have You Seen The Ghost of Jon](http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/363510/october-27-2010/exclusive---have-you-seen-the-ghost-of-jon-).” Beta credit JESUS: Stellar_Dust, thank you SO MUCH! <3

They lost Jon to the Toclafane within a week of leaving New York City.

It hadn’t been Stephen’s fault, not really, though it had been his idea to detour south in the first place—it being warmer, he’d figured, and every step south meant another step closer to South Carolina and his own home territory. It hadn’t even been Martha’s fault, for not wearing her perception filter on a longer string that could cover the three of them at once, and it certainly hadn’t been Jon’s for shoving Stephen out of the way when the Toclafane scouts descended on them one morning.

The Toclafane vanished almost as quickly as they had come, but the damage had already been done. Stephen could only cradle Jon’s head in his lap (still feeling the choking sensation of Martha’s too-small perception filter thrown around his neck, of Martha’s hands scrabbling over his mouth to stop him from screaming), refusing to acknowledge the bloody mess that was Jon’s torso while Martha did her best to make Jon comfortable in his last moments.

Jon’s eyelashes fluttered, and Stephen found himself meeting Jon’s owlish blue gaze. “You’ve got—to keep going,” Jon said, so soft that Stephen had to turn his good ear closer to catch it. “You and Martha—don’t let me—hold you back.”

There was a buzzing noise growing inside Stephen’s skull, and he shook his head to clear it. “Nonsense,” he said loudly. “You’ll be fine. Martha’s going to patch you up, and you’ll be up and about in no time. No one’s going to be holding anyone back, hear me? No one!”

Jon chuckled weakly. “That’s—my Stephen,” he breathed, and then he died.

The buzzing solidified into a loud wailing shriek, which Stephen at first assumed was Sweetness until Martha’s hands were suddenly over his mouth again and he realized that the sound was now outside of his head and coming directly from him.

* *

Two nights later, after he and Martha had joined yet another ragtag group of refugees for a cold supper around a dying fire, Stephen remained silent until Martha had finished telling her story about the Doctor she knew. Only then did he stand up and blurt out, “Let’s sing!”

Everyone (including Martha) stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, but Stephen was plenty used to that by now. “Come on, it’ll be fun!” he coaxed them. “We could all use something to cheer us up. Who’s with me?”

“But—we don’t know any songs!” protested a young girl who had sidled closer to Martha as the night wore on.

Stephen grinned at her. “Don’t worry, I’ve got just the one! It goes like this, listen...”

Once he’d led them all through an impromptu chorus, Martha pulled him aside. “What are you _doing?_ ” she hissed. “We don’t even know if this is going to work! What if it takes away from the Doctor—”

“Martha, relax.” Stephen laid a quieting hand on Martha’s arm. “You have your story to tell. Let me tell mine.”

* *

Martha and Stephen parted ways in Virginia: she would return north through New England and from there back to London, while he would cover the southern states that she did not have time to reach. As a parting gift, Martha gave Stephen Jack’s Vortex Manipulator. Even after so long away from its owner, the leather remained as warm and scented as if Jack himself had just taken it off yesterday; and Stephen guarded the beaten-up wriststrap as dearly as Martha did her TARDIS key.

Stephen spent the next few months alone, making his wandering way through the Virginias and the Carolinas all the way down to the Gulf of Mexico. He hid himself in caves at night, away from the imagined threat of bears and the real threat of the Toclafane, and lived on wild roots and scavenged food and the occasional homecooked stew whenever someone was kind enough to share with him. He nearly died several times and was almost killed far more often than that, but somehow he survived. And for every person he met, Stephen told a story—and taught them a song.

Then, on the morning of the Eve of War, Stephen used his fading memories of what-should-be, of him playing with Jack’s wriststrap and learning its basic mechanics while the two of them traveled together with the Doctor, to beam himself directly onboard the _Valiant._ He was promptly arrested and dragged before the Master, who at first regarded the bearded and bedraggled prisoner with unrecognizing suspicion.

Stephen just grinned. “Hey, Master,” he said cheerfully. “Looking better this time ‘round! Didja miss me?”

The Master didn’t kill Stephen on sight, but it was a close thing. It still might have happened anyway, had Martha’s arrest not suddenly taken greater precedence on the Master’s agenda.

* *

Stephen was sure that they were all going to die (all of them except Jack), that the plan would fail and come to nothing after all their hard work, until the moment Martha started laughing in the Master’s face.

As she explained to a livid Master how he had been fooled, everyone watched the Doctor un-age and regrow his younger body—everyone except Stephen, who was staring at the smoky mist slowly coalescing behind the Doctor in the shadows.

Under his breath, Stephen started to first hum, then sing the silly little song he’d learned for Halloween years earlier, when he was still a small-time correspondent and Jon was still alive and all Stephen wanted was to see Jon laugh, the same song he’d taught to thousands of people along the Eastern seaboard out of a moment’s desperate inspiration.

 _Have you seen the ghost of Jon,  
Long white bones with the rest all gone.  
Oooooooooooooooh,  
Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin on?_

The mist shifted, darkened, and condensed into a small gray figure with lighter-gray hair and eyes that gleamed a joyful blue, exactly as Stephen had remembered. He flung himself towards the newcomer with a cry of “Jon!”, already forgetting about Jack and Martha and the Doctor and the Master fighting for control of Earth and the entire universe—

—only to have his fingers close around nothing but air.

“Stephen, it’s not real,” the ghost of Jon whispered into Stephen’s good ear. “I’m not like the Doctor. The Network can’t ever bring me back. I’m sorry.”

“No!” Stephen wanted to burst into tears, to rail at the unfairness of the world. “But you weren’t supposed to die! You can’t stay dead! If you die, the timeline will be all _wrong!_ ”

( _And Besides, I Love You,_ sobbed a voice in Stephen’s head, and he didn’t even have the Wørd to blame it on this time.)

The ghost smiled. “Don’t worry about the timeline, Stephen. Once Jack takes care of the Paradox Machine, which should be any second now, everything will be back to the way it was before. I won’t remember any of this, nor will anyone else—but I’ll be alive and, when the time is right, I’ll be waiting for you.”

Stephen tried not to sniffle. “Promise?”

In response, the ghost reached out and clasped Stephen’s hand; and for the briefest of instants Stephen felt warm human flesh surround his own. “I promise,” said Jon.

And then the whole world spun on itself as time rewound, and by the time Stephen was able to see straight the ghost was nowhere to be found.

(But not quite gone, because long after he’d stepped off the _Valiant_ and returned to a bustling and alive New York City, Stephen had the feeling the ghost was still there...somewhere.)

* *

It’s been over two years since the Master died and the Archangel Network collapsed, and Stephen’s older and grayer and maybe a little bit wiser ( _He’s Certainly Gotten A Lot Wider,_ snickers the Wørd), but his fingers still tremble as he holds up the flashlight under his chin. He thinks he recognizes some of the faces in the studio audience from his travels down south, but none of them remember the Year That Never Was and so he’s had to teach them the words all over again.

He doesn’t mind. It’s a lot better than the alternative.

“All right, everyone, on count of three!” Stephen cries. “One—two—three! _Have you seen the ghost of Jon..._ ”

As they all sing, Stephen feels heat slowly creep from his chest outwards through his arms, until he’s entirely embraced by Jon’s ghost from within himself—where it had been waiting all this time—finished off by a breath of warm air brushing across Stephen’s lips like a parting kiss.

For reasons unknown to everyone in the studio but himself, Stephen smiles and sings his heart out for the camera.

(And when Stephen gets home that night, Jon is already there and waiting for him, which makes everything— _everything_ —worth it.)


End file.
